It Doesn't Change Anything
by IdleWit
Summary: "I'm sorry." The words hang between them, like the dull thud of a pebble as it hits the sandy bottom of a dried well.
1. You Have to Mean It

**You Have to Mean It**

"_I'm not upset that you lied to me, I'm upset that from now on I can't believe you."_

_-_Friedrich Nietzche

"I'm sorry."

The words hang between them, like the dull thud of pebbles as they hit the sandy bottom of a dried well. He does not dare glance at her, like a prisoner on death row too afraid to glance up at the judge's eyes, sitting high above him, as they pass down their verdict.

His heart clenches, his throat feels dry. It's like he's a five year old again, being sent to the principal's office. He takes a sip of warm soda, letting it slide down his oesophagus as his shirt sticks to him, an unpleasant second skin.

He continues to avoid her gaze and keeps his planted firmly on the soft waves, the foam creating white figures dancing on the peak of the wave until they finally shattered upon the grainy sand. The silence stretches between them until he feels like he can't take it anymore, like it's filling his airways with its heavy implications, choking him. He parts his dry and cracked lips, trying to suck in enough air to say something, anything, just to break the deafness in his ears.

"You don't mean it..."

Her tone is neutral, matter of fact, but to him her voice is like ice piercing his skin. His eyes turn to her, the soda clatters softly as he drops it, hissing as it spills the rest of its contents onto the sand. He doesn't even notice. She isn't looking at him, her head is completely turned as her eyes focus on some spot far in the distance, on the other side of the empty beach. All he can see is a mess of blonde hair peeking out from under a ridiculous pink beanie.

He didn't have an answer to this. Because if he was honest with himself, he _still_ believed he hadn't done anything wrong. If she would_ just_ accept that, they could continue as before. _Really, this was all her fault_, resentment hissed through his mind, _She's the one hurting him_! _She should be the one to apologize!_

_And yet_, the small voice of reason piped up, _if he hadn't done anything wrong, then how the hell had they gotten here?_ He brushes it aside like an annoying gnat, not wanting to listen to its whispers accompanied with heavy dread. He was sure he could fix this, if she would just _look_ at him-

His fingers reach up, as if of their own accord, to touch her frail shoulder and bring her back to him. But they pause just short of the fine fabric of her top, each fingertip burning. His hand is suspended there for a moment, unmoving, until finally it grows too heavy for him to hold up, dropping uselessly to his side.

The waves continue to crash against the shore, in their eternal tug of war with the sand, as he looks to her, and she looks away.

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**A/N: Just a small drabble. Please review if you read : ). **


	2. Fallen King

**Fallen King**

_"Children begin by loving their parents; after a time they judge them; rarely, if ever, do they forgive them."  
_-Oscar Wilde

Each step creaked as he made his way up, the dim light above flickering and making his long shadow jump on the wall. He kept his eyes averted, concentrating on his battered sneakers and not the exposed red bricks that lined the narrow staircase. He used to think they shaped the character of the building, now they appear shabby, just a poor man's answer to a lack of plaster.

He reaches the landing in time to hear the shouts. The screams of a girls voice as it reaches fever pitch, and the rumble of a father attempting to regain control. No such luck. The door slams open violently as a skinny blonde with her face hidden in tangles streaks out like a cat running from fire. Her thin frame ploughs into him, all skin and bones. He steadies her instinctively, and she looks up, tears streaming down her cheeks, cutting a river of black across her cheek bones.

Before he would have immediately embraced her in strong arms, with gentle words. But he doesn't really recognise this creature, with wide eyes hidden under dark shadows and mattered hair hiding painted red lips. She's so thin he feels like the slightest pressure from his fingers will make her break, or evaporate into nothing but air. She doesn't give him a chance to test his theory, instead she wrenches herself from his fingers, strength in those light limbs, and pounds her way down the rest of the staircase, each furious step vibrating up to him.

He pauses there for a second, unsure of whether to precede up or descend down to follow her. The sound of strings making an ungodly wailing finally moves him. With a slow heavy plod, sneakers filled with concrete, he makes his way towards the door, too tired to try and make it anywhere else.

World War Three has certainly hit. There are clothes strewn on the floor, fallen from a bag with a broken strap. He glances over to see his Dad, his brown ruffled hair visible over the couch as he hunches over his old guitar, plucking at the strings in an attempt to drown out unpleasant thoughts.

He remembers those same calloused fingers gripping his small digits tightly and lifting him up to tower above the world on strong shoulders. Back then his Dad seemed so tall, a man with all the answers in the world. He resents it, this man sitting there, who has shattered that childhood illusion to leave him bare and raw to the realities of adulthood. The sound of the guitar, which once he enjoyed like a soothing lullabye, grates on his nerves. He contemplates stepping over and grabbing the smooth wood from this fallen man's fingers, smashing it until it wails no more, until his Dad has to face the realities and finally realise his children were looking to him to fix this. But he does not have the courage to break the last vestige of this man.

Instead he turns and heads for the familiar battered door, the paint chipped away at the bottom, scuff marks from his shoes imprinted into its very soul. He opens it, glances back at the shadow on the couch, then steps in and slams it shut behind him loudly, a kind of testament to the fact he was there. The guitar pauses, silence enveloping as he falls onto his small bed. He glances up at the dark ceiling, wondering what he would do if the cramped walls with peeling wallpaper actually did close in on him. He imagines he would still lie there, too tired to move, as they crushed his body and what was left of his soul.

It takes a minute, but then the strings are plucked again, filling the air with a discord of noise. He grabs the old pillow from the bed, pressing it over his ears, attempting to block out the unbearable crying.

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**Thanks for the reviews : ). Please R&R : )**


	3. Teenage Dream

**Teenage Dream**

The doors slide open before her and she enters the fortress of solitude. She fumbles in her handbag, pausing at the entrance until her fingertips meet overpriced plastic, plucking from the depths a pair of bejewelled sunglasses; she places them delicately upon the tip of her slightly freckled nose. The colour's were too bright in here, offending her eyes with their brash cheerfulness.

She slipped out of her torturous footwear, carelessly leaving them laying on their sides, abandoned. Her feet padded softly on the carpet, toes sinking into the thick ply. Her foot met with the first stair before she was stopped with a startled exclamation.

"Darling, I didn't expect you back so soon…"

She raised her eyebrow wryly as she contemplated her mother through the brown tinged filter of her glasses. It was like a picture from a teenage spread, only with older occupants. Her mother sat upon the couch, lipstick slightly smudged and a few strands of hair gone astray. The man beside her self-consciously settled his tie, attempting to appear nonchalant.

"Clearly…"

Her mother has the sense to colour slightly at this, a slight pink tinge that spread on her cheeks like soft rouge.

"Did you have a nice time?" the man rescues her mother with a placating question, eyes piercing her to the spot, like a butterfly caught on a pin.

She actually considers the question, pausing as her mind flittered to a beach, a boy and a break. She contemplates seriously flipping hi the bird and seeing what he did with that particular morsel. Instead she allows her shoulders to rise and fall, a non-committal gestures.

"All right," mumbles with numb lips.

Surprisingly she finds herself fighting those same lips from trembling, desperately holding back stinging water threatening to spill from her shaded eyes.

There is an awkward pause, adults desperately searching for some other social nicety to throw into the air, for fear she would burst forth with something _real_. She doesn't wait, dismissing herself she turns and concentrates on climbing that steep staircase. She can almost feel the relief of her departure waft up from downstairs.


	4. My Place

**My Place**

She used to love it, his place. The smell of home cooked food always pervaded the air, rich scents that she had never experienced in her entire life. The food wasn't eaten from a silver tray with foreign utensils. Instead it was served in familiar chipped plates, with scrapes or scratches, mugs with colourful ink plastered upon the side in untidy scrawl, declaring it a certain occupant's property. Instead of stiff expensive seats for them to occupy as they ate in silence, they sprawled upon the lumpy couch, talk and laughter, filling the air of that small space they called home. It didn't matter if liquid was spilled onto the old threadbare rug. There was no help to warn, it was merely wiped with a napkin, any mark left with despair to join the others littering the carpet, telling a patterned story.

She adored the fact his father, no his _Dad,_ always seemed to know what was going on in their lives. He asked questions about their day, and at the sign of trouble he didn't scream or yell, instead he spouted proverbial words of wisdom from softly smiling lips. He was a tangible parent, one they could touch and hug, one they knew. So different from the men her mother used to bring home, with eyes that brushed over her figure in an absolutely 'creepy way' as her brunette friend had described it once with a delicate shudder. At least now she didn't have to lock her door anymore, her new mother's husband never gave off that pungent odour, he never really seemed to notice her at all really.

Everyone always thought she had perfect, but_ this _was perfect. She told him once, as they sat on the couch together, his strong arm wrapped around her. He had smiled wanly and hadn't replied. She never repeated it again, but once she tried to convince her mother to have dinner with her on the couch, just to talk. Her mother had lamented the white of the new pouf, had spouted about some gala or dinner or dance, she really _had_ to get to.

"Maybe another time darling…"

She knew there never would be another time, so like a good little girl she never brought it up again.

She still thought about his place sometimes, as she sat in uncomfortable seat made for decoration rather than to fit her, listening to absolutely polite talk between thin lips, as anything real was left unsaid. She wanted to get up and scream, to escape back across the bridge to the place that she loved. But it wasn't her place to share, not any longer, so she remained seated, picking at her soufflé with her perfect silver fork.


	5. On the Street Where She Lives

**On the Street Where She Lives**

_"The beginning of love is the will to let those we love be perfectly themselves, the resolution not to twist them to fit our own image. If in loving them we do not love what they are, but only their potential likeness to ourselves, then we do not love them: we only love the reflection of ourselves we find in them" **  
-**_Thomas Merton; No Man is an Island

He stops at that street corner, his eyes brushing over that familiar window. The curtains are closed, light filtering through but revealing no silhouettes of the inhabitants within. His feet can't help taking him here, every now and then, stopping as cars continue to breeze by behind him and people rush around him, almost as if he is not there.

He plunges his numb fingers into his jacket pockets, his neck arched up and dark eyes fixated upont hat light. There is a slight flutter of the curtains, the slightest movement, and then it is gone.

He wonders if she's laughing up there, red lips parted in that enticing way she sometimes had. He had been the cause of her laughter many times before, the cause and the reason. He'd never seen her tears though, soft drops clinging to her sooty eye lashes, stubbornly refusing to fall just as she refused to shatter. No, he had never been the cause or reasons for her tears. She saved her vulnerability for another, for him she had only shared a perfect smile and demure tones. Underneath lay a girl he had only caught a glimpse of once, sitting in a corridor together, and then the door was shut on him forever. He'd chased it though, chased that glimpse of that fragile creature with claws as sharp as knives. He always seemed to be chasing things he never could quite catch…

He sighs heavily, absently rubbing the crick from his neck. He indulges himself with one more second to fixate upon that rectangle of yellow, before shaking himself, turning his sneakers away. The girl he loved didn't even live here anymore, really she never had…


	6. Dear Boy

**Dear Boy**

Sometimes it suffocates her, the feeling of the future looming closer and closer. It can happen anywhere; a café, the street, a bar… Her chest would constrict at the sudden epiphany, hitting her like a bus with no warning. Everything was changing, absolutely everything, and nothing would ever be the same again.

She grabs her clutch and rushes away, trying to find an escape though she never did see where she was going, bumping carelessly into immovable bodies. Eventually she would come to a stop in a quiet corner, blonde hair tangled, breath bursting out in a tangible mist, curling away from her in the cold air. She leant against whatever surface was there, rough stone, smooth wood, cold plaster, it didn't matter, she just wanted the world to stop spinning, for everything to pause, if just for a moment, just until she found the ground again.

Unconsciously her fingers would grip for that familiar smooth object, her life in plastic. Blindly she'd fumble, finally pressing the lighted number, the first. It would ring, each rattling like the last air escaping the throat of a corpse. And then finally, he would pick up.

"Hello? Hello?"

Her eyelids closed, a small gush of air leaving her lungs as she felt as if she could breathe again. He didn't know it was her, she'd gotten a new phone, a new combination of digits, and she hadn't dared tell him for fear of never reaching the other end. She never said anything, but just listened to his voice, whether it was angry, or sleepy, or simply puzzled. Eventually the dial tone would sound, and she would take the phone from where it was painfully pressed to her ear, and carefully place it back in the depths of her bag, calmly settling her hair and walking away. Somehow, though she had no clue why, it helped to know that no matter what, there would always be an unkempt sweet boy just across the bridge.

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**A/N: Thanks to everyone that reviewed : ) Please R&R**


	7. Reserved

**Reserved**

It's not at all what he expects. Different to everything he thought he would feel.

When he eventually comes face to face with her, it was in the backdrop of tinkling instruments of classical musicians and expensive perfume which choked his airways with their cloying stench. He had been standing by the table over laden with food that no one was touching, not the thin tall women in clinging dresses or the men stifling in suits that stretched across threateningly bursting waists and shoulders. He had shuffled along the table, heaping his plate with food he was not going to consume, for want of anything better to do. His hand paused when he came to the éclairs, stopped by a reserved sign with a familiar name upon it.

He stared at it for a whole minute, at that name, then resentment rose in his throat like bile. He snatched an éclair from the middle of the pile, creating a gaping hole on the plate. His teeth ripped into it furiously, the sudden burst of expensive cream and chocolate filling his mouth, tasting like triumph.

"The eclairs are reserved!" her familiar voice sounds behind him, indignant and angry like a Queen who has caught a subject stealing gold from her King's coffers. The sudden surprise causes the pastry sticks in his throat, a retching cough to wrack his body as his oesophagus tried to expel the bolus, his eyes filling with water. He's distantly aware of his name leaving her lips as a surprised exclamation. She's moved into action as he continues to choke, a hand hits him on the back, perhaps harder than necessary and eventually his body manages to right itself, enough for him to straighten, gasping for breath. When he wipes the water from his eyes she's standing in front of him now, staring with wide brown eyes that always seemed to speak volumes, though her red lips remained closed.

Small sandwiches and tarts litter the floor around them, the plate having slipped from his hand as his survival instincts conquered his body. Funnily only the torn éclair remains in his hand, the hole he had ripped into it revealed its insides like chocolate puss. And he just stands there, with it in his hand, staring at her.

For a moment her face shows shock, her red lips part slightly, her brown eyes widen with surprise, then trepidation, then pity and perhaps, though this may have been wishful thinking, regret. And then she is closed to him once more, a fortress of cool solitude. There is an awkward silence that hangs like tethered string; it was like they were strangers, worse somehow... His best friend was standing right in front of him, and he didn't know what to say and it was ridiculous.

His mouth opened, he thought of sweeping aside everything with a few simple syllables. But before he could a voice called out her name and her eyes flicked in their direction, away from him. They flickered back to his face for a second, she gave him a wane small smile, and then she was gone in the click of heels and the rustle of her dress.

He stood there for a minute, watching the spot she had disappeared in the crowd, between a balding man and an auburn blonde beauty fighting in hushed angry whispers. Finally he glanced down at the mess on the floor, bending down to pick the various ruined, crumbled pastries from the floor.

"Sir, please, there is no need, we will get that," an accented voice of one of the staff interrupted him before he could even touch the first crumb. The man knelt down beside him, quickly and efficiently clearing the catastrophe from the floor. He straightened, watching on blindly, in shock, as it was swept away. And then, just with one brush stroke, it was all gone, the staff member went to toss it in a can somewhere out of sight of these perfumed peacocks and Dan was left standing there with a ripped open éclair.

It took the balding man, bumping past him with the blonde woman on his arm, for him to tear his eyes away from the piece of carpet and for sound to suddenly return to his world. The man didn't even spare a glance at him as he and the woman moved towards the exit, both completely absorbed with the other, locked in an intimate bubble of romance.

He watched them leave and then, absently placing the éclair back upon the pile he headed for that same exit with rushed steps. He had never been part of this world…not hers at least…

It wasn't at all what he had expected. It didn't hurt as much, at least not in the way he thought it would...

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_A/N: Is anyone still reading this? : )_


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